Miles woke before his alarm, not with clarity but with that same tight pressure across his ribs. The sensation felt almost intelligent, as though something in the room was holding its breath with him and waiting for him to finally face the thing he had been avoiding since the night of the pre-engagement party.
Willow.
The memory of her beside him that night slid in like a blade, cold and precise and impossible to ignore. She had stood next to him like a woman carved from porcelain and ice, her back straight, chin lifted, voice clipped, and eyes refusing to meet his. Each glance she gave him had been controlled and measured, distant in a way that unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
That distance shocked him more than he allowed himself to acknowledge. She had once been meek and agreeable and soft in a way that had belonged entirely to him. He had shaped her, taught her the world, and guided her forward step by step.
